


Better Than Revenge

by lucymonster



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Taylor Swift - Freeform, Team Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-22 16:16:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3735382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucymonster/pseuds/lucymonster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brock Rumlow thought he knew what he was in for when he took his promotion to head of STRIKE. He didn’t know that he would end up here, sitting in a spacious top-floor office across from the most powerful man in all of SHIELD, trying to explain how a crucial high-stakes mission nearly got derailed by an argument about Taylor Swift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Than Revenge

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to go ahead and blame osprey_archer for enabling this nonsense.

“Can you be more specific?” Pierce’s expression is chillingly mild, and for the first time in his life Brock feels a pang of regret for the day he decided to join up with Hydra. He knew more or less what he was in for when he took his promotion to head of STRIKE: he knew it would be rough work, violent and ruthless and secretive, all part of the inevitable cost of building a better, cleaner world.

He didn’t know that he would end up here, sitting in a spacious top-floor office across from the most powerful man in all of SHIELD, trying to find the words to explain how a crucial high-stakes mission nearly got derailed by an argument about Taylor Swift.

The asset is watching quietly from the corner, his face the perfect blank mask he wears whenever he’s in a room with Pierce.

Fuck him, anyway.

-

Rewind a few days to an unmarked road winding right through the middle of a great big stretch of Russian permafrost. Bumfuck, Nowhere. It’s been more than four days and one drawn-out firefight since any of the car’s occupants had time for a shower. Brock is crammed into the backseat between Berger and Rollins, gritting his teeth every time a bump in the road sends one of them careening into him.

“Put your chair forward,” he snaps, aiming a kick at the backrest in front of him. The asset got himself promoted to the front seat about half an hour into the journey by being so unbelievably irritating that everyone else threatened to get out and walk if he sat next to them. This is a side of the asset that Pierce and his smug band of white-coat assholes never see. He’s a model agent back at base, silent and respectful and unflinchingly obedient. It’s only once he’s out in the field that he starts to develop a personality.

And what a personality it is.

The asset moves his chair forward immediately. It doesn’t make Brock any less irritated. If the asset were to start disobeying orders outright then maybe the higher-ups would start taking an interest, instead of rolling their eyes and referring back to the ‘all objectives accomplished’ on mission report after mission report. But why should anyone care about the secret weapon’s attitude as long as he’s firing straight? The extra little bit of space in the backseat barely makes a difference, and the asset just kicks his feet up on the dash and goes back to staring vacantly out the window.

The miles pass by in a dull white blur. Snow and more snow.

After a while, the asset twists around in his seat. “Give me your iPod,” he tells Rollins.

“I’m not giving you my fucking iPod,” Rollins says through gritted teeth.

Brock shoots Rollins a warning look. Rollins glares back defiantly, like he doesn’t know full damn well how this is going to end. For no reason that Brock has ever figured out, Rollins is the asset’s favourite person to bully in the field. Everyone else has learned to stay out of the asset’s way; Rollins just keeps going back for more. Picking fights when he ought to keep his mouth shut. Digging in his heels when he should just learn to be fucking flexible. It’s like waving a red flag in front of a bull.

Brock could always order the asset to leave Rollins alone, but then he’d have to deal with all the aimless lashing-out that happens whenever the asset is deprived of an outlet for his temper, and it just isn’t worth it. It’s Rollins’ call if he wants to single himself out as team punching-bag.

The asset watches Rollins for a while with a calm, unblinking expression that probably means he’s considering murder (all of the asset’s expressions mean he’s considering murder). Rollins grits his teeth. He looks steady, but Brock can feel him starting to fidget. Then the asset turns away and settles back in his seat.

A few moments later, the humming starts.

“Jesus _Christ_.” Jackson, who has been silent the entire ride, grips the steering wheel so tight that the car skids a little on the icy road. “Just give him the fucking iPod, Rollins.”

On the upside, the asset stops his awful tuneless humming as soon as the iPod is plugged into the car stereo. On the downside, it turns out the only thing that interests him out of Rollins’ entire music collection is Taylor Swift.

Go figure.

-

The inside of the safehouse where they pull up overnight isn’t a whole lot warmer than the outside. Gusts of icy air slip in past the unsealed windows, and the shitty electric stove puts out barely enough heat to warm Brock’s hands when he rests them on the hotplate. There’s no TV, no radio reception, and - thank god - no stereo system. If Brock has to listen to one more minute of Taylor fucking Swift, he’s going to start shooting people.

Jackson was fine while he was driving, but now that they’ve stopped he’s coming over shaky. The wound he took in their last fight is starting to ooze yellow through its dressing. He needs medical badly, but there’s no chance of getting that out here and they’re still miles away from the rendezvous point where they’re supposed to meet their reinforcements.

Berger sorts out rations while Brock and Rollins battle the elements to get a fire burning. It’s not going to last the night, but they can at least get some water boiled to wash Jackson’s wound. The asset just finds a sheltered corner and makes himself comfortable, completely indifferent to the work going on around him. At least he isn’t getting underfoot.

They eat their shitty MREs huddled around the shitty dying fire in the least drafty corner of the shitty little safehouse, and Brock considers setting a watch for about five seconds before he decides it’s not worth all the bitching and the hassle. Anyone who’s managed to track them this far probably deserves the hit. “Bed,” he announces, once the asset has polished off the last of Rollins’ ration and Jackson’s head is starting to droop where he sits. “Pair up, come on, it’s too fucking cold to be fussy.”

“I want to bunk with Rollins,” says the asset at once. The idea seems to please him immensely, for reasons Brock decides he’s better off not knowing.

“Rollins is with me,” he says sharply. “ _You_ are bunking alone.”

The asset pulls his mouth into a childish pout. Paired with his three-day stubble and soulless blue eyes, the effect is alarming. “I might freeze to death.”

“ _Good_ ,” says Rollins under his breath.

“You will not freeze to death,” says Brock tiredly. “Just take the spare blanket and sleep on the couch, you’ll be comfortable.” The spare blanket should really be going to Jackson, whose skin has taken on a sickly sheen in the glow from the fire. But the asset’s scowl is turning dangerous - maybe because he’s worried about hypothermia, but probably because he’s annoyed at being denied the chance to torment Rollins further - and no amount of blankets will help Jackson if the asset ends up killing them all in the middle of a temper tantrum.

It’s a direct order, so the asset doesn’t argue. Just snatches up the spare blanket to add to his own and settles down on the couch amid a chorus of creaking springs.

Brock lays out his own bedroll as close to the fire as he can get. Rollins hunkers down at his back. “You’re welcome,” Brock whispers over the rustle of blankets.

“I can handle myself,” Rollins hisses back. His whole body is rigid; he’ll sulk about this for days. He hates it when Brock steps in for him. Thinks it makes him look weak. It would serve him right if Brock just gave up and left him to his own defenses.

It would deprive Brock of a welcome heat source, though. Between Rollins’ body heat and the still-warm embers of the dying fire, tension is leaching out of Brock’s stiff muscles. He pillows his head in the crook of his arm and pulls the blanket up over his head and sinks comfortably down into blissful darkness.

It doesn’t last.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Rollins shouts, and Brock is wide awake with a dry mouth and a spinning head and no memory of having fallen asleep. He sits up, disoriented. A shadow is moving by the bed. He reaches for his gun before he realises who it is, and then has to bury the urge to reach for his gun even harder. Beside him, he can feel Rollins tensing for a fight.

The asset ignores both of them. He’s off the couch, still wrapped up in his blankets like some kind of extra murderous burrito, and is absorbed in the task of upending Rollins’ pack onto the floor, pawing through the contents and tossing things aside like their existence offends him. A lot of things offend the asset. Not many offend him enough to get him out of bed once he’s gotten in. The asset can sleep through a mortar strike when he wants to.

Jackson and Berger have woken up too. “What’s going on?” Berger asks sleepily. And then, as his eyes focus on the asset: “Fuck’s sake, you ate all Rollins’ rations already. I’ve got a couple of spare protein bars if you’re hungry.”

The asset considers this for a moment, weighing up the prospect of free food against whatever it is he wants out of Rollins’ pack. Then he scowls, flings Rollins’ spare socks at Berger’s face, and goes back to digging through the pack like a raccoon in a trash can.

“I want the iPod back,” he says.

“You’re joking,” Rollins says flatly, and then, “You can’t have it.”

Rollins, as it turns out, is wrong on both counts.

-

Jackson and the asset both have to be literally kicked out of bed the following morning. Jackson has come down with a chill overnight, and he curls in on himself and whimpers at the first touch of icy morning air on his skin. The asset still has his earbuds in, blasting his music at a volume that completely drowns out Brock’s waking orders. Brock takes a bitter moment to reflect that this is, in fact, Hydra’s most elite team of field operatives he is dealing with.

There’s no question of putting Jackson back behind the wheel in his current state. Rollins takes over, sliding into the driver’s seat and pushing the chair back as far as it goes. Jackson, crammed in like a sardine behind him, doesn’t complain. He rests his head against the window and fogs the glass with his shaky breath. In the passenger seat, the asset plugs in the iPod and swivels the air con vents so that his bulk is blocking off all the warm airflow to the back. Jackson gives a pathetic little shiver.

To his credit, he lasts a good quarter of an hour after that before he gives in and starts huddling up against Brock for warmth.

Tundra passes outside the window. The car rattles and lurches over every bump in the road, pushing Jackson ever closer into Brock’s already limited space. Jackson _stinks_. All of them fucking stink. The whole car is rank with BO and recycled air. The tinny speakers keep pumping out the same repetitive bars of country rock until the sound of it is a sharp drill boring right into Brock’s skull. He is so, so sick of the slutty actress song. They have had the slutty actress song five times already this morning and now the asset is going back for a sixth. When they finally move on to the one about Romeo and Juliet, he feels a surge of excited relief that turns quickly to self-loathing when he realises he has actually started to memorise the lyrics.

He’s going to be singing about Romeo and Juliet in his sleep for months. Fuck the asset. Fuck Jackson, whose head is lolling heavily on Brock’s shoulder. Fuck Rollins and his bumpy driving. Fuck Berger, too - he’s guilty by association. Fuck this whole damn mission.

They hit a pitted stretch of road and Jackson lurches upright, colour draining from his face. “I think I’m gonna barf,” he says.

“Do _not_ barf,” Brock says immediately. The car smells bad enough as it is and god, if they have to keep driving with that all over the backseat… “Just look out the window. Focus on something in the distance.”

“It’s not fucking working,” Jackson whines.

“You haven’t even tried -”

Taylor’s warbling takes a sudden, sharp spike in volume. The asset’s hand is on the control and he’s glaring into the rearview, clearly outraged that anyone has dared interrupt his listening experience.

“Suck it up,” Brock snaps at him. “You want silence, you can put your fucking earbuds back in. Jackson, _sit up straight_.” Jackson is hunching over, clutching his stomach, breathing in rapid wheezy gasps. “You’re gonna make it worse, putting pressure on your stomach.”

“Please turn the volume down,” Jackson begs. His face is chalk white. “It’s making my head -”

“Shut _up_ ,” the asset barks. He spins the volume dial higher. Jackson doubles over again. He is starting to hyperventilate. Music thunders from the speaker behind him, making the back of the chair vibrate.

Shit. “Hey. Hey, just breathe, okay?” Brock grips Jackson’s shoulder firmly, free hand scrambling at his feet for an empty bag or container he knows he’s not going to find. “Come on, you’ve had worse than this, pull yourself together -”

And then suddenly Rollins’ voice is erupting over all the racket. “Jesus _fucking_ Christ, if you don’t turn that music down I am going to _throw you out of this car_ -”

Brock’s heart lurches with adrenaline. “Rollins!”

“- and your fucking bullshit sissy music, it’s like babysitting a fucking teenage girl, what is _wrong_ with you -”

It’s unclear which word it is that tips the asset over. If he had time to think about it, Brock’s money would be on ‘sissy’. But what happens next is a blur. There is a flash of metal and a hoarse shout of pain, and Rollins’ head is snapping back over the low headrest and the car is skidding on the icy road, careening off to the side. The world tilts. There is more shouting. Brock tucks his chin and brings his arms up protectively around him, and next thing he knows he is hanging sideways from his seatbelt with no air in his lungs and a splitting pain in the back of his head and bright spots of white light dancing in front of his eyes.

For a moment, everything is still.

A harsh noise breaks the silence: metal on metal. The asset is forcing open the crumpled side door, clambering out of the toppled car. Brock squints, forces his bleary eyes to focus. He sees the asset’s arm reach back into the wreckage, grabbing at something. Then he sees nothing. The world goes dark.

Someone is shaking him.

“Sir. Shit, sir, wake up.”

He opens his eyes again. Berger is outside the car, reaching back in through a shattered window, hacking at Brock’s seatbelt with a pocket knife. He looks relieved when Brock’s eyes meet his. “You okay? Got the others out already. Jackson’s banged up pretty bad.”

“Good work,” says Brock automatically. His head feels like it’s swimming in molten lava. Grasping Berger’s arm unsteadily, he hauls himself up and out through the window. The car is a write-off. On the ground not far away, Rollins is hovering over Jackson with a grim look on his face. His right eye is swollen shut.

There is only one thing missing. “Where’s the asset?” Brock says.

Berger gives a tight little shrug. “Fucked off, sir. Took all his gear with him. And the fucking iPod.”

 _Good riddance_ , Brock doesn’t say. It’s not going to be good riddance when Pierce hears what’s happened. “Tell me help’s on the way,” he says instead.

“Called our reinforcements,” Berger says. “They’re on their way now. Shouldn’t be more than a couple of hours away.”

“Great.” A couple of hours is a long time in weather like this, nursing a concussion and at least one seriously injured teammate. “Grab whatever blankets are left. We’re gonna need to keep warm.”

In the end, it takes almost four hours for anyone to get to them. A battered old SUV pulls up on the roadside, and two unfamiliar agents in thick winter coats jump out to help lift Jackson into the back. “Your friend arrived ahead,” one of the men tells Brock in a thick Russian accent. “He is finishing the work with our team.”

“He brings good music,” says the other, grinning cheerfully.

Brock’s head gives a violent throb. He finds himself hoping that it is the onset of a second blackout.

-

“I see,” Pierce says. His expression hasn’t changed once throughout Brock’s story. “I’m disappointed, Agent Rumlow. If I wanted all the work left to the asset this time, I wouldn’t have assigned your unit to back him up.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” Brock hangs his head, partly in apology but mostly to hide the grinding of his teeth. “It won’t happen again.”

“No,” Pierce says. “I imagine it won’t.” He turns his level gaze on the asset. “You did well,” he says, and immediately his voice is infused with a fatherly warmth that turns Brock’s stomach. “You can head downstairs now for your debrief.”

The asset’s face looks unusually pale as he stalks out of the office. His mouth is pulled tight around the corners. Probably upset at being sent out of the room without seeing Brock get a proper dressing-down. Fucking asshole.

Pierce turns back to Brock. “You’re dismissed,” he says. “Have Agent Rollins report to me at once.”

“Yes, sir.”

It’s only once Brock is out of the room that he realises how fast his heart has been beating.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk STRIKE team shenanigans with me on [tumblr!](http://itsbuckybitch.tumblr.com/)


End file.
